Darkest Hour Read online

  I just shook my head. Sometimes my bedroom feels like Grand Central Station.

  “Well, I simply didn’t—” Clive Clemmings fiddled with his bow tie. “I mean, when they said I should contact a mediator, I didn’t…I mean, I never expected—”

  “—that the mediator would be me,” I finished for him. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

  “It’s only,” Clive said apologetically, “that you’re so…”

  I just glared at him. I really wasn’t in the mood. Can you blame me? What with the concussion, and all? “That I’m so what?” I demanded. “Female? Is that it? Or are you going to try to convince me you’re shocked by my preternatural intelligence?”

  “Er,” Clive Clemmings said. “Young. I meant that…it’s just that you’re so young.”

  I sank down onto the window seat. Really, what had I ever done to deserve this? I mean, nobody wants to be visited by the specter of a guy like Clive. I’m almost positive nobody ever wanted him to visit when he was alive. So why me?

  Oh, yeah. The mediator thing.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Clive?” I probably should have called him Dr. Clemmings, but I had too much of a headache to be respectful of my elders.

  “Well, I hardly know,” Clive said. “I mean, suddenly, Mrs. Lampbert—that’s my receptionist, don’t you know?—she isn’t answering when I call her, and when people telephone for me, well, she tells them…the most horrible thing, actually. I simply don’t know what’s come over her.” Clive cleared his throat. “You see, she’s saying that I’m—”

  “Dead,” I finished for him.

  Clive eyes grew perceptibly bigger behind his glasses.

  “Why,” he said, “that’s extraordinary. How could you know that? Well, yes, of course, you are the mediator, after all. They said you’d understand. But really, Miss Ackerman, I’ve had the most trying few days. I don’t feel at all like myself, and I—”

  “That,” I interrupted him, “is because you’re dead.”

  Ordinarily, I might have been a little nicer about it, but I guess I still felt a little kernel of resentment toward old Clive for his cavalier dismissal of my suggestion that Jesse might have been murdered.

  “But that’s not possible,” Clive said. He tugged on his bow tie. “I mean, look at me. I am clearly here. You are speaking to me—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Because I’m a mediator, Clive. That’s my job. To help people like you move on after they’ve…you know.” Since he clearly did not know, I elaborated: “Croaked.”

  Clive blinked rapidly several times in succession. “I…I…Oh, dear.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “See? Now let’s see if we can figure out why you’re here and not in happy historian heaven. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Clive dropped his hand from his chin. “Pardon?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember,” I repeated, “from before you found yourself…well, invisible to Mrs. Lampbert?”

  “Oh.” Clive reached up to scratch his bald head. “Well, I was sitting at my desk, and I was looking at those letters you brought me. Quite kind of your stepfather to think of us. People so often overlook their community’s historical society, when you know, really, without us, the fabric of the local lore would be permanently—”

  “Clive,” I said. I knew I sounded cranky, but I couldn’t help it. “Look, I haven’t even had breakfast yet. Can you get a move on, please?”

  “Oh.” He blinked some more. “Yes. Of course. Well, as I was saying, I was examining the letters you brought me. Ever since you left my office the other day, I’ve been thinking about what you said…about Hector de Silva, I mean. It does seem a bit unlikely that a fellow who wrote so lovingly of his family would simply walk out on them without a word. And the fact that you found Maria’s letters buried in the yard of what was once a well-known boardinghouse…Well, I must say, upon further consideration, the whole thing struck me as extremely odd. I’d picked up my dictaphone and was just making a few notes for Mrs. Lampbert to type up later when I suddenly felt …well, a chill. As if someone had turned the air-conditioning up very high. Although I can assure you Mrs. Lampbert knows better than that. Some of our artifacts must be kept in highly controlled atmospheric climates, and she would never—”

  “It wasn’t the air-conditioning,” I said flatly.

  He stared at me, clearly startled. “No. No, it wasn’t. Because a moment later, I caught the faintest whiff of orange blossoms. And you know Maria Diego was quite well-known for wearing orange blossom–scented toilet water. It was so odd. Because a second later, I could swear that for a moment…” The look in his eyes, behind the thick lenses of those glasses, grew faraway. “Well, for a moment, I could have sworn I saw her. Just out of the corner of my eye. Maria de Silva Diego…”

  The faraway look left his eyes. When his gaze next fastened onto mine, it was laser sharp.

  “And then I felt,” he told me, in a tightly controlled voice, “a shooting pain, all up and down my arm. I knew what it was, of course. Congenital heart disease runs in my family. It killed my grandfather, you know, shortly after his book was first published. But I, unlike him, have been extremely diligent with my diet and exercise regimen. It could only have been the shock, you know, of seeing—thinking I was seeing, anyway—something that wasn’t—that couldn’t possibly—”

  He broke off, then continued, “Well, I reached for the telephone to call 911 at once, but it…well, the telephone sort of…leaped off my desk.”

  I just looked at him. I had to admit, by this time I was feeling sorry for him. I mean, he had been murdered, just like Jesse. And by the same hand, too. Well, more or less.

  “I couldn’t reach it,” Clive said sadly. “The telephone, I mean. And that…that’s the last thing I remember.”

  I licked my lips. “Clive,” I said. “What were you saying? Into the dictaphone. Right before you saw her. Maria de Silva, I mean.”

  “What was I saying? Oh, of course. I was saying that though it would bear further investigation, it did seem to me as if what you suggested, and what my grandfather always believed, might possibly have merit….”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t believe it.

  “She killed you,” I murmured.

  “Oh.” Clive was no longer blinking or tugging on his bow tie. He just sat there, looking like a scarecrow somebody had pulled the pole out from under. “Yes. I suppose you could say that. But only in a manner of speaking. I mean, it was the shock, after all. But it’s not as if she—”

  “To keep you from telling anyone what I said.” In spite of my headache, I was getting mad all over again. “And she probably killed your grandfather, too, the same way.”

  Clive did blink then, questioningly. “My…my grandfather? You think so? Well, I must say…I mean, his death was rather sudden, but there was no sign of—” His expression changed. “Oh. Oh, I see. You think my grandfather was killed by the ghost of Maria de Silva Diego to keep him from writing further about his theory concerning her cousin’s disappearance?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I said. “She didn’t want him going around telling the truth about what happened to Jesse.”

  “Jesse?” Clive echoed. “Who is Jesse?”

  We were both nearly startled out of our wits by a sudden knock on my door.

  “Suze?” my stepfather called. “Can I come in?”

  Clive, in a flurry of agitation, dematerialized. I said come in, and the door opened, and Andy stood there, looking awkward. He never comes into my room, except occasionally to fix things.

  “Uh, Suze?” he said. “Yeah, um, you have a visitor. Father Dominic is—”

  Andy didn’t finish because Father Dominic appeared just behind him.

  I can’t really explain why I did what I did then. There is no other explanation for it other than the simple fact that, well, in the six months I’d known him, I’d come to really feel something for the old guy.

  In any case, at the
sight of him, I jumped up from the window seat, completely involuntarily, and hurled myself at him. Father Dominic looked more than a little surprised at this unbridled display of emotion, as I am normally somewhat reserved.

  “Oh, Father D.,” I said into Father Dominic’s shirt-front. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  I was, too. Finally—finally—some normalcy was returning to my world, which seemed to have gone into a complete tailspin in the past twenty-four hours. Father Dominic was back. Father Dominic would take care of everything. He always did. Just standing there with my arms around him and my head against his chest, smelling his priestly smell, which was of Woolite and, more faintly, the cigarette he’d snuck in the car on his way over, I felt like everything was going to be all right.

  “Oh,” Father Dominic said. I could feel his voice reverberating inside his chest, along with the small noises his stomach was making as it digested whatever it was he’d scarfed down for breakfast. “Dear.” Father Dom patted me awkwardly on the shoulder.

  Behind us, I heard Dopey say, “What’s with her?”

  Andy told him to be quiet.

  “Aw, come on,” Dopey said. “She can’t still be upset over that stupid skeleton we found. I mean, that kind of thing shouldn’t bother the Queen of the Night Peo—”

  Dopey broke off with a cry of pain. I glanced around Father D.’s shoulder and saw Andy pulling his second-oldest son down the hallway by the rim of his ear.

  “Cut it out, Dad,” Dopey was bellowing. “Ow! Dad, cut it out!”

  A door slammed. Down the hall in Dopey’s room, Andy was reading him the riot act.

  I let go of Father D.

  “You’ve been smoking,” I said.

  “Just a little,” he admitted. Seeing my expression, he shrugged helplessly. “Well, it was a long drive. And I was certain that by the time I got here, I’d find you all murdered in your beds. You really have the most alarming way, Susannah, of getting yourself into scrapes….”

  “I know.” I sighed, and went to sit on the window seat, circling one knee with my arms. I was in sweats, and I hadn’t bothered putting on makeup or even washing my hair. What was the point?

  Father D. didn’t seem to notice my heinous appearance. He went on, as if we were back in his office, discussing student government fund-raising, or something completely innocuous like that, “I’ve brought some holy water. It’s in my car. I’ll tell your stepfather that you asked me to bless the house, on account of yesterday’s, er, discovery. He might wonder at your suddenly embracing the Church, but you’ll just have to start insisting upon saying grace at supper time—or perhaps even attending Mass from time to time—to convince him of your sincerity. I’ve been doing a bit of reading on those two—Maria de Silva and this Diego person—and they were quite devout. Murderers, it appears, but also churchgoers. They will, I think, be quite reluctant to enter a home that has been sanctified by a priest.” Father Dominic looked down at me with concern. “It’s what could happen when you set foot anywhere outside this house that’s worrying me. The minute you—Good heavens, Susannah.” Father Dominic broke off and peered down at me curiously. “What on earth happened to your forehead?”

  I reached up and touched the bruise beneath my bangs.

  “Oh,” I said, wincing a little. The wound was still tender. “Nothing. Look, Father D.—”

  “That isn’t nothing.” Father Dominic took a step forward, then inhaled sharply. “Susannah! Where in heaven’s name did you get that nasty bruise?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, scraping my bangs down over my eyes. “It’s just a little token of Felix Diego’s esteem.”

  “That mark is hardly nothing,” Father Dominic declared. “Susannah, has it occurred to you that you might have a concussion? We should have that X-rayed immediately—”

  “Father Dominic—”

  “No arguments, Susannah,” Father D. said. “Put some shoes on. I’m going to go have a word with your stepfather, and then we’re going down to the Carmel Hosp—”

  The phone jangled noisily. I told you. Grand Central Station. I picked it up, mostly to give myself time to think of an excuse why I didn’t need to go to the hospital. A trip to the emergency room was going to require a story about how I’d come to obtain this latest injury, and frankly, I was running out of good lies.

  “Hello?” I said into the receiver while Father D. scowled down at me.

  “Suze?” That all-too-familiar high-pitched little voice. “It’s me again. Jack.”

  “Jack,” I said tiredly. “Look, I told you before. I’m really not feeling well—”

  “That’s just it,” Jack said. “I got to thinking that maybe you hadn’t heard. And then I thought I’d call and tell you. Because I know you’ll feel better when I tell you.”

  “Tell me what, Jack?”

  “About how I mediated that ghost for you,” Jack said.

  God, my head was pounding. I was so not in the mood for this. “Oh, yeah? What ghost was that, Jack?”

  “You know,” Jack said. “That guy who was bugging you. That Hector guy.”

  I nearly dropped the phone. I did drop it, actually, but I flung out my hands and caught the receiver before it hit the floor. Then I held it back up to my ear with both hands so I would be sure not to drop it again—and make certain I was hearing him right. I did all this with Father Dominic watching me.

  “Jack,” I said, feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of me. “What are you talking about?”

  “That guy,” Jack said. His childish lisp had gone indignant. “You know, the one who wouldn’t leave you alone. That lady Maria told me—”

  “Maria?” I had forgotten all about my headache, all about Father Dom. I practically yelled into the phone, “Jack, what are you talking about? Maria who?”

  “That old-fashioned lady ghost,” Jack said, sounding taken aback. And why not? I was shouting like a lunatic. “The nice one whose picture was in that bald guy’s office. She told me that this Hector guy—the one from the other picture, the little picture—was bugging you, and that if I wanted to give you a nice surprise, I should exer—I should exor—I should—”

  “Exorcise him?” My knuckles had gone white around the receiver. “Exorcise him, Jack? Is that what you did?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, sounding pleased with himself. “Yeah, that’s what it was. I exorcised him.”

  chapter

  eleven

  I sank down onto the window seat.

  “What—” My lips felt numb. I don’t know if it was a complication of my concussion or what, but all of a sudden I couldn’t feel my lips. “What did you say, Jack?”

  “I exorcised him for you.” Jack sounded immensely pleased with himself. “All by myself, too. Well, that lady helped a little. Did it work? Is he gone?”

  Across my room, Father Dominic was looking at me questioningly. Small wonder. My conversation, from his end, had to sound completely bizarre. I hadn’t, after all, had a chance to tell him about Jack.

  “Suze?” Jack said. “Are you still there?”

  “When?” I murmured through my numb lips.

  Jack went, “What?”

  “When, Jack,” I said. “When did you do this?”

  “Oh. Last night. While you were out with my brother. See, that Maria lady, she came over, and she brought that picture, and some candles, and then she told me what to say, and so I said it, and it was really cool, because this red smoke started coming out of the candles, and then it swirled and swirled, and then over our heads this big hole opened up in the air, and I looked up inside it, and it was really dark, and then I said some more words, and then that guy appeared, and he got sucked up right inside.”

  I didn’t say anything. What could I say? The kid had just described an exorcism—at least, all the ones I’d ever experienced. He wasn’t making it up. He had exorcised Jesse. He had exorcised Jesse. Jesse had been exorcised.

  “Suze,” Jack said. “Suze, are you still there?”r />
  “I’m still here,” I said. I guess I must have looked pretty awful, since Father Dom came and sat down on the window seat next to me, looking all worried.

  And why not? I was in shock.

  And this was a different kind of shock than I’d ever felt before. This wasn’t like being thrown off a roof or having a knife held to my throat. This was worse.

  Because I couldn’t believe it. I simply couldn’t believe it. Jesse had kept his promise. He hadn’t disappeared because his remains had, at long last, been found, proving he’d been murdered. He’d disappeared because Maria de Silva had had him exorcised….

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?” Jack asked worriedly. “I mean, I did the right thing, right? That Maria lady said Hector was really mean to you, and you would be really thankful—” There was a noise in the background, and then Jack said, “That’s Caitlin. She wants to know when you’re coming back. She wants to know if you can maybe come in this afternoon, because she has to—”

  But I never did learn what Caitlin had to do. That’s because I had hung up. I just couldn’t listen to that sweet little voice telling me these horrible, awful things for one second more.

  The thing was, it wouldn’t sink in. It just wouldn’t. I understood intellectually what Jack had just said, but emotionally, it wasn’t registering.

  Jesse had not moved on from this plane to the next—not of his own free will. He had been ripped from his existence here the same way he’d been ripped from life and, ultimately, by the very same hands.

  And why?

  For the same reason he’d been killed: to keep him from embarrassing Maria de Silva.

  “Susannah.” Father Dominic’s voice was gentle. “Who is Jack?”

  I glanced up, startled. I had practically forgotten Father D. was in the room. But he wasn’t just in the room. He was sitting right beside me, his blue eyes filled with bewildered concern.

  “Susannah,” he said. Father Dom never calls me Suze, like everyone else does. I asked him why once, and he told me it was because he thought Suze sounded vulgar. Vulgar! That really cracked me up at the time. He’s so funny, so old-fashioned.